Third Party, Fire, and Theft
by Retrolex
Summary: It's a good thing the Autobots don't pay Ratchet overtime.


Wheeljack staggered out of the Ark and into the bright Oregon sunshine.

He whacked the side of his head with one hand and noted with satisfaction that his optics stopped fritzing a moment later, bringing the world back into focus. Olfactory sensors registered traces of smoke and ash in the air. When he had regained the presence of mind to perform a visual check to ensure all of his limbs were still attached he saw black smoke broiling off his back in clouds.

Audio receptors, still sharp even after the initial blast, picked up the tick of superheated metal cooling in the outside air. It felt as if every heat sink in his body had melted.

All in all, a rousing success.

The engineer scratched his head. Admittedly, a few details still puzzled him. Granted, the whole purpose of a Rockeye II cluster bomb was that it was going explode at some point in the future. But as a smart weapon, it needed to be armed first. 'Spontaneous detonation' were not words that typically described the performance of military grade hardware. Maybe it was time to take Ratchet's advice and stop tinkering with unfamiliar human technology. Or at least upgrade the blast shielding in his lab.

He shook his head. Something rattled. He briefly debated whether it would be wise to return to his lab and examine the rubble, then remembered that after he'd made his escape the fire system had kicked in and liberally blanketed the area with fire-retardant foam. Eh. It could keep for a while without him.

Besides, it was a nice day out. The sky was a brilliant blue, without a single white cloud to mar it. Red-banded mesas glowed against the horizon, while the scrubby fir thicket that surrounded the base of the mountain stood dark and green and fragrant, filling the warm air with the scent of pine. A mushroom cloud roared above it in flickering hues of orange and black, while flocks of terrified birds screamed into the sky.

Wheeljack did a double-take.

As a column of smoke poured into the sky he heard the sound of debris smashing down into the trees. Laughter echoed from the cliffs. Oh, of course. That had to be the Test Committee. It sounded like Ironhide was up there. And Inferno. And anyone else who had not been able to resist the invitation to test-fire experimental ordnance. Judging by the whooping, that was half the base.

The ground rocked with another muffled explosion. It sounded as if they were enjoying themselves, although the same likely couldn't be said about the local wildlife. After twelve weeks of Decepticon inactivity many of the Ark's inhabitants had been struck with what the humans referred to as 'cabin fever'. With a horde of stir-crazy Autobots on his hands, Optimus Prime had carefully weighed his options and begun dishing out portions of leave to all non-essential personal.

Save for Gears, who had grumbled something about having nowhere else to go, most the Autobots had scattered their own separate ways, to the bitter envy of the skeleton crew left behind. Wheeljack himself had been granted time off, faced the realisation that there wasn't anywhere he wanted to go, and entrenched himself in his own lab.

He was not alone. Hoist, with orders to remain behind in case of trouble, wandered down into his lab now and then to politely inquire about Wheeljack's various projects in all of their unfinished, strewn-across-the-floor glory. Red Alert and Jazz, to their mutual distaste, had found themselves as the officers on duty and thus confined to the Ark's communications centre.

And as for Ratchet...

Oh, there he was now.

The boxy white and red medic stalked out of the Ark. Something narrow swung from one of his fists. As Wheeljack watched in bemusement the medic paused, reeled back and, hefting the object like a javelin, viciously launched it into the forest.

The engineer was impressed when a flock of startled birds shot out of the trees nearly five hundred yards away. Wow. Good arm.

Wheeljack turned to his friend, who was staring after it with a wild look on his face.

"Is something wrong?" he said.

Ratchet shot him a suspicious look. "Was that a joke?"

"It wasn't meant to be. What was that?"

"That, my friend, was a length of industrial piping that ungrateful rat Sunstreaker brought home with him three days ago. In his chest."

Only then did Ratchet notice the smoke.

"What happened to _you?_" he said.

"It's all good," said Wheeljack quickly. "The shielding caught most of the larger debris, and I managed to kick out the smaller fires before they spread to the wiring."

Ratchet stared at him. Wheeljack wisely recognised his cue to gently redirect the topic of conversation.

"Was that pipe the primary cause of Sunstreaker's injuries?" he said.

"Ugh, that it was. I knew something screwy was going on the moment I opened his chassis and saw absolutely no trace of Decepticon gunfire. It was just a thin piece of metal, about this long-"

Ratchet measured a short length with his hands. "- And yet it had thrust up through the poor fellow's back and punched through his chest, only just scraping past no less than two main system clusters. A little to the left and it might have ruptured a major fuel line and killed him long before Sideswipe could have carried him back here."

"Sounds serious."

"I practically dreamed about the various ways of extracting the damn thing without causing harm to neighbouring systems." Ratchet bent his hands into claws in front of him, as if he were throttling an invisible assailant. "Images of the damage it could have wrought haunted me for days. After four hours of surgery I finally wedged the damn thing out. And in true Sunstreaker style the first thing out of his mouth when he comes online is a long deluge of bitchiness about how the colour I used to paint over the marks was a 'cool shade of yellow closer to green on the colour wheel' rather than the 'warmer, orangey tones' he usually prefers."

Wheeljack winced. "Ouch."

"I swear to god the ingrate keeps a pack of Pantone swatches in his glove compartment and flips them out when I'm not looking. Because he sure as hell keeps a careful track of just what shade of a colour is supposed to go where and pisses and moans when they don't match up."

Ratchet's hands clenched and unclenched at his side. "But do you want to know what the real kicker is? After seeing all that damage I was horrified - it looked as though he had caught a Decepticon attack squarely in the chest. But, like I said, no gun damage. So I hunt down a suspiciously guilty Sideswipe and browbeat a play-by-play account of the battle out of him, and it turns out that our Sunstreaker got a piece of industrial plumbing lodged into his chassis while he and his brother were goofing off around a derelict construction site during their leave."

"What on earth were they doing there?"

"Who knows. Sideswipe just mentioned something about a game called 'Manhunt'. I yelled and made a swipe for him at around that point, so he didn't stick around long enough to explain just what a Manhunt is."

A noisy explosion from the west sent both Autobots reeling. Ratchet staggered back a step with his hands clapped to his audials.

"For the love of Primus," he growled. "Are they still up there?"

"Oh yes," said Wheeljack. "Blasting away at a harmless bit of desert. Prowl isn't any happier about it than you are, but he didn't really have any solid ground to refuse them on."

Ratchet gingerly lowered his hands. The shockwave echoed off down a distant canyon. "I could have supplied him with a few arguments."

"At least they're having fun."

"Of course they are. It's all fun and games until someone blows off an arm. And make no mistake: I'm going to see at least one member of our new ammunition committee sometime before the end of the day. Or whatever is left of him. Mark my word - this is just going to be one of those afternoons. I've got a gut feeling about it already."

The engineer gave him a sympathetic look. Ratchet laughed. He clapped a hand on his Wheeljack's back and frowned when it came away black with soot.

"Tell you what," he said. "Let's go hose you off, then head to the common room for a drink. I'll even run a quick scan to see if you've managed to do any major damage to yourself, on the house."

"Thanks," said Wheeljack they began a rambling course that would eventually take them out of the Oregon sunshine and back into the Ark. "I appreciate that."

* * *

Nearly twenty miles away, beneath a towering spread of redwoods, a big black Autobot put his back to the fender and gave a mighty push backwards, his knees locked.

"Give it gas, Hound!" he hollered.

The tires of the green jeep spun with an angry whine, kicking up a spray of red mud and clay.

The Autobot spluttered. He wiped at his face with the back of one hand and stepped back to survey the jeep, the muddy sinkhole, and the Oregon backroad at large.

"It's no good, buddy," he said. "All that rain yesterday has turned it into soup. If you want out before the sun goes down you're going to have to transform."

Hound laughed. "You're missing the point, Trailbreaker. The humans don't call it off-roading because they get out and walk."

Trailbreaker shook his head. "Millions of years of evolution behind them and they call this a sport."

"Aw, it's not that bad. Out in the fresh air and sunshine, and all that. Ow, ow, ow, OW."

The jeep stopped spinning his tires and rocked back into the thick of the sinkhole. The stench of smoke and burnt rubber hung in the air.

"Oh, damn it," said Hound. "I only got that fixed a week ago. Ratchet's gonna kill me."

"Uh oh. Don't tell me. Transformation cog blown out again?"

"You betcha. And how."

Trailbreaker waded out of the mud and collapsed onto the side of the road. "You're right. Twice in a month? He is gonna skin your green ass."

He squinted at the sun and watched some wispy clouds drift lazily across the sky. Trailbreaker had to admit that there was something to Hound's newfound hobby of driving out into the very heart of the Oregon wilderness and then barrelling over it at speeds in excess of eighty miles an hour. One could almost find a certain uncultivated, chest-pounding satisfaction in meeting the roughest terrain head on and feeling it crunch beneath his tires.

And in this contest of Autobot versus Nature, Hound had him beat. The military jeep could claw over the worst the landscape threw at him with dexterity and boundless cheer. Two weeks ago he'd disappeared for a day on one of his solitary treks and returned the next evening with three tires blown out, a young birch tree wedged in his rear axle and his hood caved in. The green Autobot had only grinned at Ratchet's horrified expression when he'd rattled into the medbay and said, "But it was worth it."

Trailbreaker grinned up at the sky. It was, too.

Back on the road he heard a vicious squeal as Hound dug in again. A moment later his voice floated back. "Uh, a little help here?"

Chuckling, Trailbreaker rolled into a sitting position and pushed up to his feet. He ambled back to the road and eyed the listing jeep with good humour.

"I'll try pushing again," he said. "But five minutes more of this and I'm calling Hoist."

"Twenty," said Hound. "We almost had it last time."

Trailbreaker nodded indulgently. You had to give him bonus points for persistence. "Sure we did. Ten minutes, and not a second more. I'm all for the hearty struggle against adversity, but this is starting to cut into my Ice Road Truckers time."

"Shut up and push," said the jeep.

* * *

Jazz deftly spun a laser scalpel around his fingers.

It was a souvenir from one of his rare trips to the medical bay. He suspected that giving it to him to fiddle with had been a plot on Ratchet's behalf to shut him up while he worked. But Jazz liked Ratchet, and the damn thing was kind of cool, so he couldn't blame the medic.

He clicked on its red light and shone it onto his companion's forehead like a laser pointer. "Uh oh, Red! Think you picked up a sniper."

From across the Communications Centre he saw Red Alert hunch his shoulders. There was little doubt in Jazz's mind that he was grating on the security director's nerves, particularly earlier that day when he had used the scalpel to practice his jump shots. Red fought a losing battle to ignore him.

The truth of the matter was that he was bored. The Ark was silent, its occupants spread out over a two hundred mile radius. There was no one to talk with, and prudish Red Alert did not count. Three hundred plus television stations, beamed down to his station from an altered Sky Spy satellite, had kept him amused for the first few days of his sojourn in Communications, at which point he'd come to realise that early afternoon television scheduling was comprised mostly of soaps and infomercials. He had rapidly lost interest in watching television after that, even if Eloise had come out of that coma just in time to catch her half-sister having sex with her fiance Dr Richard in the sponge bath tub. That skank.

A warble from his computer heralded an incoming transmission. He fumbled the scalpel in surprise. From the corner of his eye he spotted Red Alert absently reaching for the accept button. Jazz quickly punched the corresponding switch on his own terminal and opened the radio channel first.

"This is the Communication Nation, Jazz speaking. Do you have a question you'd like to ask our expert, young lady?"

He leaned back and basked in the security director's irritation. "Hey, howdy Trailbreaker. No, a little bored but feeling fine. What can I do for you today?"

A moment later he waved for Red Alert's attention.

"We need Hoist sent out for a pickup on Grist Mill Road," he said, his hand still resting against the side of his head. "Could you pop on the horn and give him a ring? And tell Ratchet to expect some company within the hour while you're at it."

"Grist Mill is not a road," said Red Alert darkly as his fingers moved over his station. "Even the Mennonites avoid it."

Jazz laughed. "From the sound of things we've got a pair of Autobots stuck up there."

"Do we. Dare I ask why?"

"Trailbreaker said they were off-roading. I don't get it either. It's funny what some people will do to pass the time."

"Isn't it though," said Red Alert sourly.

* * *

Wheeljack ran a quick check of his internal clock. Primus, it was only eleven-thirty in the morning and already Ratchet's premonition of woe was coming true.

"Ah, Hound," the medic sighed as he and Wheeljack strode into the medical ward. "So good to see you again. And so quickly on the heels of your last visit too."

Standing offside, Trailbreaker was willing to bet that, were Hound able too, he would scuffle his feet in embarrassment. He sniggered.

Ratchet's gaze followed the incriminating path of mud from the jeep's tires to the medbay doors. Hoist had dropped him off and disappeared just as quickly, evidently expecting the worst. "The Columbia River Gorge again?"

"Grist Mill Road," said Hound sheepishly.

"Just as bad."

Trailbreaker murmured a silent agreement.

Ratchet narrowed his optics. "Tell me if I'm way off in left field here, but you've burnt out your transformation cog again, haven't you."

Hound laughed. "You've got me pegged, don't you?"

"Not really. When a patient has to be towed into medical and then refuses to transform when he gets here, I begin to get hunches."

"How was the drive today?" said Wheeljack.

"Great," said Hound, even as Ratchet wandered off with a mutter. "Amazing, even. It's beautiful out there, especially after all that rain. Once we turned off the highway and started hitting all those little backroads outside of Portland the scenery turned gorgeous. You should come out with us sometime, Wheeljack. Honestly, it'll blow you away."

"Or at least jar some major pieces lose," said Trailbreaker.

"Ah, if it's all right with you, I'm going to have to decline. I'm more of an asphalt 'bot myself."

"Suit yourself. But you're missing out on a lot."

"Stop dragging innocent Autobots down your slow path to destruction," said Ratchet. "And sit tight for a bit. I'll have you up and hurtling off natural precipices in a matter of minutes. I'm this close to calling you as bad as Sunstreaker."

"There's no need to be insulting."

Ratchet laughed and crouched down next to the jeep. After spreading his tools in a semi-circle around him he looked back over his shoulder at Wheeljack.

"And thus," he said dramatically, "it begins."

* * *

Nearly two miles away from the Ark, a stretch of desert baking quietly to itself beneath the sun gave a twitch, and then exploded upwards in a jet of rock fragmentation. Within minutes, nearly an acre of more desert found itself coated in a fine layer of dust as the fallout from the detonation began to gently settle back to earth, or else drift east on the basin's prevailing winds.

Screaming erupted from a nearby cliffside.

"DAMAGE, DAMAGE, DAMAGE!" roared Inferno. "OH, that's GOTTA hurt!"

"Nice shot, old man," said Sideswipe. "I felt that all the way over here."

Ironhide shouldered the launcher in satisfaction as a column of dust and debris seethed upwards from the new crater in the desert.

"That's one chunk of geography that ain't gonna be threatening freedom and peace and the Autobot Way again," he said. He turned away and threw down the empty launcher. "That's it for me, then. Blue's up next."

At the end of the line of smoke-streaked and happy Autobots, Bluestreak leapt to his feet. He had been waiting patiently beneath the glare of the yellow Oregon sun for his turn to come up for some time now.

"What's the score so far?" he said.

Sprawled amidst the dwindling energon supply, Inferno whipped out a datapad. The task of the pad had long since degenerated from its original purpose of recording test data to that of a geographical kill list. The big red Autobot had volunteered for the job when he realised that it meant sitting long hours next to the energon.

"Let's see, here. Ironhide, you've got an impressive tally of four Decepticon boulders and the single-handed destruction of an entire cliff face that we all agreed could pass off as a battle convoy or something." Inferno pretended to lick his thumb as he paged down the list. "Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are tied with three 'Cons apiece, and that's pretty good considering that Sunny showed up late. So kudos to you, kids."

A smattering of applause greeted that. The applause hastily grew louder when Sunstreaker scowled and locked an invisible foe in a headlock and hammered blows into his face.

Inferno held up his hands for silence. He whistled.

"But leading the pack by three Decepticons and Devastator is none other than our very own Bluestreak!" he said. "Somebody please give the boy a hand."

The Autobot gunner modestly waved off a half-hearted chorus of cheers as he strolled out to a well-scuffed point on the cliff. He did not consider himself a violent robot by nature, but there was something oddly satisfying in knowing that it had not affected his aim.

He nudged his foot through their diminishing pile of munitions. It had not taken long for Wheeljack's stack of dedicated test weaponry to be spent. The slims pickings left over had been scattered into a messy pile.

A pair of white rockets looked as if they would fit his launchers. Bluestreak picked them up and hefted one in each hand.

Inferno hooted.

"I remember those!" he said. "Wheeljack mentioned he'd packed an extra kick into those babies. The one on your left is Matilda. The one on your right is Psycho."

Bluestreak turned back towards the desert and surveyed a faraway ridge. Its surface was pockmarked with at least a dozen deep impact craters,

He frowned. Most of its worthy targets had long been blown away. Boy, for a faction devoted to peace across the galaxy the Autobots sure could be a destructive bunch.

He crowed. "Enemy Seeker at one o'clock high!"

A row of heads swivelled to look at the distant overhang that the gunner had pointed out. It shimmered like a mirage in the desert heat.

"Never gonna happen," said Ironhide.

"One in a million chance," said Sideswipe.

"No way in hell," said his brother.

Inferno looked sceptical. "Your record speaks for itself, but I kinda find myself agreeing with the rest of these naysayers. That's an awfully tiny target, Blue."

"I can hit it," sniffed Bluestreak as he loaded the white rockets into his shoulder launchers. "Just watch."

He drew a careful bead on his target, internal computers briskly totalling up the prevailing crosswind, and fired with gusto.

The explosion that blew over most of his audience with its powerful concussive waves was very loud, even as a dense cloud of white smoke mushroomed into the sky. When the desert winds had blown it away, Bluestreak was gone.

"Oh shit, we lost the kid," said Ironhide.

The Autobots scrambled to their feet and ran to the point on the cliff. As one, they peered downwards.

"Aw, hell," said Ironhide.

"Ouch," said Sideswipe.

"Who's gonna fish him out of the trees?" said his brother.

Inferno pushed himself up to his feet. "Fear not, gentlemen, because that happens to be one of my specialties."

* * *

This time, Jazz did not bother regarding the blinking light at his station with astonishment. You did not look a gift horse in the mouth, as the humans were wont to say. He simply made a mad grab for the switch, narrowly beating out Red Alert to the incoming radio transmission for the second time that afternoon.

"Home of the Whopper - what's your beef?" he said, while the security director shook his head and turned his attention back to pretending to watch various camera displays on his terminal.

"Oh, hey there Inferno. Nope, not the last time I checked. What's happening out there on Ground Zero? … Uh huh? … No kidding? Really? Naw, I won't warn Ratchet about this one - he loves it when I spring stuff out of the blue on him like this. No, really. Would this face lie to you? See you in a bit."

Red Alert was already wearily plugging away at keys on his station. "Shall I send out Hoist?"

Jazz waved it aside. "I'm on it."

"Are you going to tell me what happened, or should I just sit back and predict a series of worst case scenarios instead?"

"Don't be such a pessimist, Red. Think of it as an extra sprinkling of zest for the colourful kaleidoscope that is life."

The security director snorted. "First of all, your metaphor made absolutely no sense. And secondly, your zesty life is getting good Autobots injured. At this rate I begin to wonder who our own worst enemy really is."

"And to think that two hours ago I was complaining about being bored," Jazz marveled at the ceiling. "I love my job."

* * *

Ratchet spun and thrust a finger at the limping figure being escorted into the main ward by Hoist.

"I knew it!" he said. "Did I call that one or what?"

Startled, Wheeljack turned from a nearby workstation.

"On dear," he said. "You did. Nicely done."

Ratchet's finger stabbed towards the nearest empty medical berth.

"Sit," he commanded.

Bluestreak sat.

"I'm getting a vision," said Ratchet slowly, his hand now pressed to his forehead in a precognative gesture. "Yes, it's all becoming clear to me. I see... the Test Committee. And I see an explosion. That'll be five shanix."

Looking embarrassed, the gunner swung his good leg. "Well, I guess you already know that we got the go-ahead to test out a batch of Wheeljack's newest ordnance."

"Oh, I know."

Wheeljack chuckled.

"Um, so anyway, we picked that little overhang just west of the Ark for our firing range." A grin lit up Bluestreak's face. "Ironhide dubbed it 'Ground Zero', and the name sorta stuck. We were shooting out over the desert so there wouldn't be a chance of anyone or anything getting hurt."

Ratchet's expression eloquently spoke of his doubt, but he nodded. He crouched and peered into the gunner's mangled right leg.

"Go on," he said. "I really can't wait to hear how this winds up."

"Well, to make a long story short, my turn eventually came up and I loaded my launchers with some of those white rockets Wheeljack converted for our use from Earth ammunition."

Wheeljack brightened. "Matilda and Psycho! They were the best from the most recent batch. Well, Psycho almost detonated in the lab once, but I think it was just high spirits."

"Uh... yeah. Well, I aimed for this rock that projected up from the ridge we were shooting at."

Bluestreak mimicked its position with his hands. "Like so. The angle was kind of weird so I backed towards the edge of the overhang to line up a good shot. Then I fired the things."

"At which point they went off into a hilarious chain of ricochets that terminated in your leg," said Ratchet.

"Huh? Oh, no, not that. The rockets went off without a hitch."

"They did? How novel."

"I wasn't expecting the recoil from the firing, though. Threw me right off the cliff. Now that was something."

Wheeljack felt absurdly pleased with himself. "I knew I'd packed a kick into those things!"

"Yeah, it was pretty cool!"

Ratchet looked horrified. "You fell all the way from that height? Why am I not picking fragments of you out of the local scenery?"

"Oh, I hit some trees and stuff long before I hit the ground. Broke my fall beautifully, really. But some of those big redwoods just don't snap when you crash into them, and I got my leg wedged between some heavy branches and it twisted all weird."

"That's when I found him," said Hoist. "Dangling like a paratrooper."

Ratchet plucked a sliver of wood nearly the length of his forearm from Bluestreak's damaged leg. Crumpled leaves still clung to it.

"You see?" he said. He turned and presented it to Wheeljack. "Stupid!"

"Coincidence," the engineer insisted.

Bluestreak's expression grew injured.

"Not you specifically" said Ratchet. "Just commenting on a common trend lately." He threw the branch aside and pushed up to his feet, a calculating look on his face. "Well, the structural damage is fairly severe and you're going to be picking tent caterpillars out of your chassis for a week, but by some miracle of fate you've escaped any serious internal damage. A bit of welding and some body work, and I can have you out of here in an hour or two."

"Gee, thanks, Doc."

"At which point you can march right back out to Ground Zero and inform all involved that the Chief Medical Officer is officially shutting down the Munitions Department for the rest of the afternoon, for the sake of your physical well being and my sanity. Any and all complaints can be directed to my middle finger."

Hoist laughed. "Way to lay down the law, boss."

Ratchet grunted and reached for an arc welder. "Someone had to do it. Prowl can thank me later."

* * *

Ten miles back from the Ark, a blue Corvette tore down a length of highway that wound sinuously through the Oregon woodland. It dazzled the sun with its own radiance and generally just made the unsung glory of Mother Nature all around it look that much more cheap and tawdry in comparison.

Some people say that true beauty comes from within, glowing outwards from a polished soul. Others would argue that beauty is only a flimsy projection of society's obsession with physical perfection.

And then there were an exulted few that knew that true beauty was simply a result of a glowing polish applied to their physical perfection. Tracks liked to consider himself among the latter category.

The Corvette poured around a curve in the road without slowing, whipping up a tornado of dry leaves in his wake.

The thought of returning back to the Ark had proven a considerable thorn in his side throughout his entire weekend of leave and bespoiled his good mood. It wasn't the idea that he'd be returning back to his Autobot companions that bothered him, most of whom he viewed with tolerant amiability.

And he didn't shy away from the idea that with his return to the Ark he would once again embroil himself in a millions year old war against a superior fighting force. Tracks was many things, but certainly not squeamish and most definitely not a coward.

No, what prickled the most about the notion of returning home was that that once again he would be sliding back into anonymity, just another nameless face in the ranks of Autobot warriors. 'Rank' in any of its various interpretations was not a word that figured into any of Tracks' descriptions of himself. He vented his frustration by speeding up.

The world disappeared behind a funnel of blurry speed lines. He glanced at his speedometer. Well. Two-hundred twenty. He could have just flown home.

A minivan came around a bend in the road ahead, driving in the opposite direction. Tracks slowed by increments and cleared plenty of room for the awkward vehicle to pass him by, but in a vulgar display the human driver replied to his generosity by slamming on his horn. The shriek from the van as it screamed past him set every relay in his chassis on edge, as did the sound of the gravel being sprayed against his side.

"Oh yes, very nice, thank you!" he shouted. Not that the other driver could hear him, but sometimes yelling helped.

Tracks fumed. Really - what had that been about? Oh, frankly he didn't care.

Only when something lumbered out of the woods and onto the road and regarded him with sleepy curiosity did Tracks realise what the human had been trying to warn him about.

Much too late for him to swerve.

* * *

The incoming light flashed red. Two Autobots lunged for their respective switches.

"What in god's name is _that?!_" yelled Red Alert, staring in horror at a point across the room.

Jazz whirled. The security director's paranoid alarms were frequent and annoying, but never to be taken lightly. When he spotted nothing out of the ordinary and turned back to the console, Red Alert was calmly talking into his radio.

He reeled. If he hadn't seen it himself, he would never have believed it.

Amused, Jazz waved a hand across the other Autobot's field of vision. Red Alert met his inquisitive glance and mouthed, 'Tracks.'

Satisfied, Jazz leaned far back in his chair and, the laser scalpel poised between two fingers like a dart, took aim at an almost imperceptible crack in the ceiling overhead. Someone would inevitably spot the scalpel was up there, someone always did, but the sight of it dangling with impunity over the head of an Autobot bigwig was still one of those little things in life that made him laugh. Tallying launch data with ease, he squared the tip of the scalpel with his target and-

_"You hit a bear?!"_ screamed Red Alert.

Jazz howled. He threw back his head and laughed, until Red Alert had to raise his voice just to be heard over the radio.

"Wow, is he mad," said the security director mildly. "He's asked me to tell you to shut the hell up, by the way."

"Please, stop!" gasped Jazz as he slid out of his chair.

Red Alert gave him an unreadable smile. After a low conversation over the radio he swivelled his seat around and crossed his arms over his chest, a blissful look on his face.

"I just dispatched Hoist," he said. "It took him five minutes to stop laughing and agree to scrape what's left of our friend off the road. I think we just made his day."

"No kidding! Tracks is okay I hope, all things considering?"

"Nobody can yell that loud and not be all right."

"And the crumple zone of a Corvette is like, what, the entire front of the car?" Jazz guffawed from the floor. "That's gotta be ugly, even for an Autobot. Hoo, man."

"It was a regrettable and unfortunate accident." Red Alert turned back towards his station and tapped some buttons. "For the bear."

Jazz clawed back up his terminal.

"Oh, I've just gotta vid this one to Ratchet," he said. "This demands a personal touch."

* * *

Wheeljack knew there was trouble brewing when the comm in Ratchet's office chirped once and, instead of delivering an audio message, brought up an image of Jazz's beaming face.

"Is Ratchet there?" he said eagerly.

Wheeljack cast a wary glance back at the main ward. He saw the medic vainly struggling to free his right fist and left foot from two big dents in the wall.

"I don't think he's answering calls right now," he said. "Can I take a message?"

"Sorry man, but I don't talk to personal secretaries. I settle for nothing less than the big Kahuna himself. No offence, 'Jack."

Wheeljack sighed. "None taken. You're just out for the reaction now, aren't you?"

"Hell, yes. You try spending a week shut in a room with Red and his catalogue of mental issues and see what you do to cope."

Before Wheeljack could voice a reprimand a shadow loomed over the desk.

"Jazz," growled Ratchet. He brushed Wheeljack aside and placed his knuckles firmly to either side of the screen. "If this is more bad news delivered with hilarious aplomb, I'm going to march up to Communications and stomp my foot down your throat."

"So good to see you, man."

"I just bet it is. Really, what is it? Did some idiot find a creative new way to mangle himself?"

Jazz grinned. "Did Tracks hit a bear in the woods?"

"What? I always thought it went, 'Does a bear crap...'"

He trailed off. Hovering offside, Wheeljack winced. Unlike the medic, he had approached Jazz's cryptic remark with the premonition that it couldn't mean anything good. His own internal computer had quickly thrown out all the extraneous words, totaling up the three that summed up the worst possible outcome.

One look at Ratchet's face and the same computer offered him the fastest route out of the medical bay and back to the relative safety of his own lab. Most of the fires had to be out by now.

"Are you telling me that Tracks actually managed to hit a bear?" breathed Ratchet.

Jazz laughed. "Quite spectacularly, the way I hear it. We just sent Hoist out to shovel him up."

"Are you serious?"

"Scout's honour. Red'll back me up. Tracks radioed in not ten minutes ago, yelling for blood."

"At least he sounds in one piece. Okay, it's what time now - about three o'clock? Give me ten minutes to get a med table ready and I'll see if I can't hose out the fur and stick him back together again."

"Take all the time you need. I think it's going to take a while for Hoist to get back anyway. Cheers."

The screen blinked off. Wheeljack eyed his friend warily when the medic stood and stared at a far wall with an indecipherable expression on his face. The silence was fast becoming awkward and he scrounged for something appropriate to say-

Ratchet's hand fell upon his shoulder.

"If it were anyone else I'd be angry," he said with a peculiar smile. "Very angry. But this is Tracks. This is funny."

* * *

By nine-thirty that evening, the humour of the situation had mostly spent itself.

The medical ward was a blissful void of noise and activity as Ratchet powered down the lights for the evening. The crowd of curious onlookers that had gathered at the news of Track's accident in anticipation of a good show had finally been shooed out. The star of the evening would spend the night in the ward for observation. Ratchet mentally steeled himself for a torrent of angry Autobot ranting in the morning.

Jazz had slapped a hand his back and wished him the best, then galloped back to his station with a host of new anecdotes to spring on an unsuspecting Red Alert.

Wheeljack had babbled something encouraging before retreating to his lab to hose it out from beneath the retardant foam. That traitor.

Tracks had bemoaned the damage and aimed a savage kick at an inoffensive box of spare parts, much to the delight of the crowd. Ratchet had finally just shut him offline for the sake of his sanity.

Now he stood in the centre of the ward and reveled in the sensation of being alone.

Well, almost alone.

"I'm totally unappreciated in my line of work," he said to the medical bay at large, and to the Autobot who had lingered behind after all of the others had fled.

The Autobot sighed.

"Welcome to my world," said Hoist. "Let's go initiate you with a drink."

* * *

_Wow, this one is an oldie. Now freshly rewritten!_


End file.
